


England's Kitchen Nightmares

by PurplePatchwork



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:10:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurplePatchwork/pseuds/PurplePatchwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gordon Ramsey will forever regret the day he set foot in a little bistro in London by the name of Iggy's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	England's Kitchen Nightmares

Gordon Ramsey, the star of his show “Kitchen Nightmares” (among others), was standing in front of a bistro named _Iggy's_. Apparently the business had been running very badly, or so he had been told by a certain Mr. Bonnefoy. He didn't have his camera team with him, because he was in fact on a well-deserved vacation. But when the man with an obvious French accent contacted him, his interest had been piqued. Not only because the Frenchman sounded desperate, but also because he was in the neighbourhood by chance. And he thought _: Hey, why the fuck not? I have to have lunch somewhere anyway, might as well go to this place._ Little did he know by thinking that, he had made the biggest mistake in his life.

Gordon opened the door to the bistro and stepped in. A very tall man was standing behind the bar, and smiled creepily at him when he noticed the visitor. Gordon couldn't supress the shiver that travelled down his spine.

" _Bon giorno_! A table for one?"

The waiter was definitely Italian. Gordon smiled at the man and followed him to a table near the back of the establishment. He secretly took in his surroundings, which were modern yet classy at the same time. There seemed to be not much wrong with the restaurant so far, except maybe for the man at the bar.

The waiter gave him a menu before skidding back to his place. Before Gordon could open the card, a glass was put down in front of him. He looked up to see the bartender bent over his table, creepy smile still in place.

"Is on the house, _da_?"

Gordon smiled shakily and thanked him for the drink. He downed the glass of vodka in one go; he would need it if the bartender was going to keep smiling like that. The man giggled in delight as he watched Gordon accept his drink, after which he took the glass back and walked over to his usual spot behind the bar. Gordon wasn't scared easily, but something about this man gave him the creeps.

He decided to look at the menu to distract himself. A first glance showed nothing wrong with it, everything was neatly organised. But when Gordon took a closer look, he could notice something odd. It was like someone had tried to squeeze his own dishes in between the others. When you looked at the section of stews and oven dishes, some weirdo had handwritten the word “Shepherd's Pie” in between two lines. Was it because these dishes were new and they hadn't felt like making new cards, or was there another reason? Intrigued, Gordon decided to try out some of these mysterious dishes.

He called for the waiter, who skidded back to his table, smiling blissfully.

"Ve~, have you made your decision?"

"Yes, I would like the Shepherd's Pie, the Beef Wellington, and some scones and a cup of Darjeeling for dessert."

The Italian's eyes widened and his happy mood was gone in a flash. "Um…are you sure about that, sir?"

Now that was a reaction Gordon didn't expect. He looked at his waiter, one eyebrow raised. "Is there something wrong?"

"…Wait here," the Italian said, before all but running to the kitchen.

Gordon was left to wonder what could be wrong. Yes, the dishes had stood out on the card, but to get such a reaction when he tried to order them? This was getting weirder by the minute.

Gordon could hear a heated discussion coming from the kitchen. When he looked back up, the waiter and another man were coming to his table. The newcomer looked almost exactly like the other; they were probably twins or at least brothers. The only difference was their shade of hair, a slightly different eye-colour, and the funny curls on top of their heads were pointing in opposite directions.

"You, bastard!" the brother shouted.

Gordon's eyebrows shot up at being addressed like this. Now this was getting interesting. He was beginning to understand why Mr. Bonnefoy had contacted him.

"Are you the one who ordered this food?" the man asked, even though Gordon was the only customer around at the moment.

Gordon nodded, curious as to where the conversation would lead.

"Do you have a death wish?" the Italian asked.

Wait, what?

"No, what makes you think that?" Gordon had to do his best not to fall back into his usual habit of cursing. There was plenty of time for that after he had gotten his food.

The Italian was looking daggers at him while his brother tried to calm him down.

" _Fratello_ , you shouldn't be rude to our customers!"

"Shut up, idiota! And you!" He turned back to Gordon. "I will bring you what you want but you'd better not complain or tell me I didn't warn you!"

He went back to the kitchen after this, leaving behind a trail of curse words.

"Ve… I'm sorry for my brother, sir," Gordon's waiter said apologetically.

"What the fuck was he talking about?" Gordon asked him, forgetting not to curse.

The Italian smiled nervously, and they could hear giggling coming from behind the bar. It was official, this place was seriously fucked up. Gordon was highly curious as to what exactly they were going to feed him.

He didn't have to wait long.

After drinking another obligatory shot of vodka (no way in hell was he going to refuse the intimidating bartender), his food arrived. Both of the Italians put a dish on each side of the table, looking at him with concern in their eyes.

Gordon just kept staring. Not only did the food smell horribly, it was burnt to a crisp. Gordon could not tell which dish was which. After five minutes or so of silence, the bartender spoke up.

"I shall make some borscht, _da_?"

The Italians nodded, and the man disappeared into the kitchen. Gordon could now place him as one-hundred percent Russian.

"I am sorry sir…"

"Fucking warned you."

Gordon finally looked up at the two brothers. "Are you fucking kidding me? Do you guys _actually_ serve this to other customers as well?"

The brothers looked at each other, one uneasy and the other smirking. The older brother shrugged.

"We try to convince them not to," he simply said.

Gordon gaped at him, mouth hanging open. They weren't kidding.

The Russian came back with a nice bowl of soup. "This will be better."

Gordon almost cried when he saw some real food. He nearly got to his knees to thank the bartender, now fully believing that there _was_ in fact a God. He liked the guy considerably better now.

He happily ate the borscht while the Italian brothers talked with each other in their native language at the other side of the room. The bartender kept smiling happily when he saw the enormous appetite of their customer. He brought him a third shot of vodka, which he now thankfully accepted.

When he was almost finished, things went wrong again. Black smoke started pouring out of the kitchen. Gordon jumped at the sight but no one seemed to bother.

"The fucking kitchen is on fire! Don't just stand there, do something!" he yelled when the smoke got thicker.

The older Italian sighed and walked over to his table.

" _Signor_ , you are the one who asked for scones. Well, here they come."

Fucking hell, not another dish like the two before. Gordon understood everything now. The warnings of his waiters, the phone call from the Frenchman… All of the dishes that had been scribbled on the menu were probably going to end up the same way. If they were made by the same man, that would explain everything.

"Excuse me, can I ask who made these dishes?"

"That would be Arthur Kirkland, the owner of this junk."

The fucking _owner_ did this? Gordon shuddered violently. He wanted to curl up in a corner somewhere, trying to erase the pure horror from his mind. How could the guy even own a restaurant if all he could do was set the kitchen on fire? Why couldn't he just let the Russian cook, at least he knew what he was doing!

"…So, the rest of the dishes, who makes them?" he asked, searching for a sliver of hope that could save this business.

The man perked up.

"That would be me, my _fratello_ , Mr. Braginsky over there and in the weekends, Mr. Bonnefoy. And don't worry, we _can_ cook. It's just that our idiot owner cannot understand why he shouldn't be allowed near the kitchen."

As the Italian finished saying this, a man emerged from the kitchen, holding a plate and a cup of tea in front of him.

"Who ordered scones?" the man asked.

His bright green eyes scanned the room, bushy eyebrows frowning. When they spotted Gordon, he smiled.

"Happy to have known you," the Italian whispered.

As Arthur Kirkland began to walk over to his table, time seemed to slow down. Gordon could only stare at the things that were lying on the plate. _Those things_ were not scones. They looked more like monsters from another world. And he was _not_ going to touch them.

Before anyone could stop him, Gordon started yelling furiously. He jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, and sprinted to the door. Before he could run outside though, he slammed into a wall that had manifested itself in his pathway. When he looked up, he saw the Russian smiling down at him.

"That will be five pounds for soup, _da_?"

Gordon gave him his wallet. "Keep it!" he shouted, before continuing his escape.

"There goes another one," Lovino sighed.

"Aw, too bad! He was nice," Feliciano added.

Arthur stood there, plate of scones still in his hands.

"I still don't understand why all of our customers do that…" he muttered.

Lovino put an arm around his shoulders.

"We know, tea bastard. We know."

The world never heard of Gordon Ramsey again. Some say he is hibernating somewhere in Siberia, others say he is dead. Still others say he became a monk in Tibet. We will never know. But we will always remember the last time he visited a restaurant.

So if you want to live, do NOT visit _Iggy's_ in London. Just…don't.

**Author's Note:**

> Words:  
> Bon giorno: Good morning/afternoon/day  
> Fratello: Brother  
> Signor: Sir


End file.
